


and the world stood still

by abluevixen (knightofbows), yogurtgun



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Credence Barebone, Past Child Abuse, Violence, ballet dancer!credence, mobster!Percival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-23 00:32:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10708407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightofbows/pseuds/abluevixen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yogurtgun/pseuds/yogurtgun
Summary: “What in the hell are you wearing?” he asks then, as if finally noticing the rest of Credence.“Tights,” Credence states, duh left unsaid, though implied.The man frowns then, looking more and more human somehow the longer they interact.“Christ, you’re shivering,” the man notes and then, in a practiced swoop, takes off his coat and approaches him. “Why are you in just that when it’s in the damn negatives out here?”Credence does flinch then, when the man gets too close for comfort.He stops in an instant, dead in tracks, and says with a softer, calmer voice, “Just take the coat. You’ll catch your death otherwise.”orCredence is a ballet dancer that's stuck dancing for Julliard and meets Mr. Graves when he gets locked out of his theater.(That one ballet dancer!credence / mob!percy au that nobody asked for but is getting anyways)





	1. Episode 1: First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> This characterization of Percival was developed by foxtricks ( [tumblr](http://foxtricks.tumblr.com/)  
> / [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightofbows/pseuds/foxtricks/)), who has indulged my idea for a ballet dancer/mob member fic and worked tirelessly with me on it for good part of two months, despite the time difference and other challenges. I've learned a lot about writing for her. Since it's her characterization, she has posted a fic with similar mob percy, and I encourage everyone to go check it out, she is an amazing writer.  
> Furthermore, I have to thank my beta ali, for dealing with my bilingual ass. 
> 
> if you want a little of ballet/mob aesthetic inspiration, check out the fic's tumblr @ [bruisesandballet](http://www.bruisesandballet.tumblr.com/)

An hour ago the theatre looked like a beehive on the cusp of exploding, but now it’s nothing more than an empty shell, suddenly looking too large without a pearl inside. Most of the seats are hidden in the shadows; the stage lights have long been cut off. Still, the first couple of rows are visible to Credence’s naked eye as he stands in the middle of the stage. 

He’d danced there he thinks, and though his muscles are fatigued and he can hear the floorboards creak under his weight now, he repeats the step he’d done in that exact spot. It’s as if the energy still lingers above it, gathering and accumulating in the air that Credence breathes. Sometimes he thinks he can even see it. 

As the wood cools, it groans further, and he thinks that it’s the stage answering his thoughts. It wouldn’t be strange to have been answered. Theaters spend more time being empty than full, and considering being full is their purpose, Credence thinks that if they were alive, they would have been leading very sad lives. 

Credence feels a shiver go down his spine. The silence he stands in turns oppressive and, as if coming out of a dream, he feels awareness hit him like a gust of warm air when entering a house from the cold. He realizes he’s lingered too long, and he quickly goes to take out the trash as he’d promised. 

Not everybody stays afterwards to clean up -- he certainly doesn’t -- but after the lengths he’d gone through to get to dance that night he feels almost obligated to do it. All of the other dancers had left half an hour ago, the sound technician, the ballet mistress, the lights guy. The janitors will come the next morning to clean the stage and prep it for another performance. 

Though bone weary, Credence hops from the stage still feeling light -- he’s going to crash badly when he gets to the dorms -- and grabs the trash before walking to the small doors on the other side of the theater.

The side entrance leads to the alley and the dumpsters behind, and he pushes it open. It’s only then that he realizes he’s still sweaty from his performance. The cold, New York January air cuts through him, and though he isn’t out for more than a minute, he already feels his entire body cooling down and his hands growing numb. He should have grabbed his coat. 

Credence sighs and walks back to the doors which, when he turns the knob, don’t give. His stomach drops, and he tries once more. However, they simply stay locked. Locked, Credence realizes, with all of his things inside the theatre. His coat, his wallet, his phone, even some of his spare shoes and leotards along with the makeup all sit in the changing room. What’s worse, his body is cooling so rapidly he can already sense cramps forming in his shoulders, knots in his calves. 

Before his panic can truly rise to alarming heights, he hears something from further down the alley, and he instinctively turns towards it so he can discern what it is. For a moment, he isn’t sure what he’s seeing, though he lets go of the doorknob and straightens up. He may have unwittingly gotten himself into some kind of unsavory proceeding, and he’s not above running away. He doesn’t need this kind of drama. He already has enough of it in his own life, and he’d rather jog in negative degrees than face it now. Credence narrows his eyes, trying to discern the shapes.

There are figures, that’s how much he can see, and he thinks something much more ominous is going on when he hears a whimper and a thud. Then, the shadows peel off of one of the figures to reveal flesh and bone of a man that runs past him in staggered, stumbling leaps. His face is messed up, blood running freely from his nose. Quickly, Credence turns his eyes back to the alley. 

The other figure lingers for a moment in the shadows, simply breathing. Credence can see the other’s man breath, though he can’t see him. Suddenly, Credence wonders if he himself can be seen and if he’s in any danger. Perhaps the remaining man can, but Credence certainly can’t afford to spend a night in the ER or have bruises. He thinks of running again, but his legs have turned to lead and ultimately, his things are still inside the theatre. He’s not going anywhere.

The tension in his back draws up, making him even more stiff and squaring his shoulders.

“Don’t worry,” says the other man. He steps forward out of the shadows, though they seem to linger over the curl of his shoulders and the fine lines of his face. 

They make him look fierce, even menacing, making Credence’s mood sour. He hates being intimidated. 

“I’ve no intention of hurting you,” the man adds.

Credence watches as the man finishes wiping his hands with a handkerchief -- he hadn’t been lingering for no reason, then -- and stuffs it into his pockets before he slowly walks towards him. It takes most of his control not to flinch when the man does so. 

The first thing besides the bruised knuckles that Credence notices is the long, thick coat covering the man’s frame that fits him as if tailored for him. Looking at the watch that glints from under a sleeve, the suit, the tie pin and the shoes, Credence thinks that it might be. The man’s built wide and muscled, his step heavy enough to speak of his weight but not of his slowness. He has at least forty pounds on Credence. Credence suspects it’s forty pounds of muscle. If the man had lied about his intentions, he isn’t all that confident in his ability to overpower him, so he thinks it’s best to try and avoid a fight altogether. 

There’s brute power in his hands, in his back, in his step, and it strangely suits him no matter the violence it had produced. Credence doesn’t necessarily care that someone was just beaten in an alleyway anyways, just as long as he doesn’t get the same treatment. 

Strangely, the man doesn’t strike Credence as a particularly violent person. The faint, curled line of his lips and the handsomeness of his face is deceptive. Credence knows not to fall for it. Still, regardless of his experience, he’s not halfway into the idea of running away as he was previously. The man seems reasonable. Surely they can come to an agreement that Credence saw nothing and that he really doesn’t care, and they will go their own ways. 

Despite everything however, what catches and holds Credence’s attention is the way the man looks at him. Intense is not a word Credence uses often or to it’s full potential, but it’s the one that perfectly describes the man in front of him. 

The man who stops a couple of feet away as if not wanting to frighten him. His lip curls and transforms his face into a more pleasant expression than just his eyes had offered.

“What in the hell are you wearing?” he asks then, as if finally noticing the rest of Credence. 

“Tights,” Credence states, duh left unsaid, though implied. 

The man frowns then, looking more and more human somehow the longer they interact. 

“Christ, you’re shivering,” the man notes and then, in a practiced swoop, takes off his coat and approaches him. “Why are you in just that when it’s in the damn negatives out here?”

Credence does flinch then, when the man gets too close for comfort. 

He stops in an instant, dead in tracks, and says with a softer, calmer voice, “Just take the coat. You’ll catch your death otherwise.”

In truth, Credence contemplates it for a very short time, though he’s much slower to act. He nods and lets the man approach so he can wrap the coat around Credence, his bruised knuckles on display the entire time. 

The whole situation, Credence thinks, is ridiculous, just like the man’s accent. He’d not expected it just like he’d not expected the Irish drawl, or the charming curve of the man’s mouth. Or, Credence notes, the appeal of the man’s face. Nevertheless, Credence doesn’t let it show. 

“It wasn’t my intention; I didn’t know the doors locked automatically. All of my things are inside.”

Maybe, if he’s been a good samaritan so far, the man will let him make a call to the theater owner or the producer. It will take a bit of time for them to get there, Credence doesn’t mind waiting as long as he can get his things and retire for the evening. It’s already late. It will be a miracle if he arrives back to the dorms before curfew.

The coat is incredibly warm from the man’s body heat but also from the very thickness of it. Though they’re of a similar height, the man is wider so there is some extra space. Credence wraps the coat around himself, not intent on giving it back until the man asks for it. 

When he turns to the man, Credence notices he’s inspecting the doors before he looks at Credence and smirks. “Well, we can’t have you here shivering all night, can we?”

In a movement that would have been too quick to see had Credence not been focusing on the man, he breaks one of the small, red, stained glass windows just above the doorknob with his elbow. The man’s careful with the shards as he puts his hand through and pulls the door knob from the inside. He swings the doors open once the latch gives and holds them open for Credence. “Here you are,” he says, looking the perfect gentleman. 

Credence raises an eyebrow but doesn’t hesitate to go in. “Thanks. You can wait in the wings if you want.”

Once he’s inside, he’s hyper aware of where the man is and of how the cold air comes into the theater before the doors close. He doesn’t wait for the man to catch up -- he doesn’t know why he even invited him inside -- but immediately makes a beeline for the changing room. Packing everything in his backpack is a quick process since he’d already methodically set everything up. 

Then he puts on his sweats and one of his practice shirts that should keep him warm. It’s a bit too clingy for comfort now, especially with the cold sweat, but it’s nice to have something covering his throat. He grabs his old coat and his backpack in one hand and the man’s coat in the other, then Credence leaves the dressing room, making sure to turn all the lights off. 

Walking through the hallway and to the wings feels as if he’s walking in an indefinable space in an uncertain time where anything can happen. It’s strange, as if time is passing differently here. As if space is not quite the same. A purgatory of a kind.

Quickly shaking off the feeling, Credence proceeds to search out the man. For a bit he worried that he’d disappeared inside the theater and would jump out at him, if nothing else to try and be funny, but the man is very easy to find, sitting in one of the chairs backstage where the costumes should have been stored.  
He’s folded himself nicely in his seat, waiting idly for Credence.  
If Credence had seen him anywhere else sitting quietly like this, he would have never assumed he beat people up in back alleys of theatres. But then, assumptions are rarely correct. 

“Here,” Credence says as he approaches. 

The man stands immediately when addressed. He looks Credence up and down before his eyes fall on Credence’s old coat. That’s when he frowns and says, “Is that… your coat?”

Credence has the immediate urge to look down at himself, but he resists it. He knows his clothes are old, but he really doesn’t care as long as his practice gear is good. It’s not like he plans to go out and get drunk and party. For him as a ballet dancer, that’s just not realistic. 

“Yes,” Credence replies, still holding out the man’s coat for him. “And here’s yours. Thanks for letting me use it. We should leave.”

“Oh no, keep it, kid. You need it,” the man says, quickly taking it only to hold it out for Credence again. “I cannot, in good conscience, let you go out in the cold wearing only that.”

For a split second, Credence contemplates fighting the man and whatever snobby tendencies he has, but if he’s giving him his obviously expensive coat, he must be loaded. If Credence gets a good coat without having to pay for it, just because of the man feeling… bad or something, Credence is going to take it. 

He sighs and drops his things before sliding back into the warmth of the man’s coat. He picks up his backpack and shoulders it, his coat quickly folded beforehand and put inside. 

“Thanks,” Credence repeats himself. He isn’t sure if he’s being polite out of some kind of… lingering fear that the man might snap or just because he feels like it. It’s probably the latter. It doesn’t sound sincere anyways; he’s exasperated but mostly tired. He looks at the man whose gaze seems to linger on him, something intense playing over his face. 

He really is attractive, Credence notes. It’s something in his eyes, the sharpness of his nose and the grey at his temples. He has an air around him as if he’s settled, as if he’s completely comfortable in his skin and he’d react with the same calmness he produces here in any other situation. Day in and day out Credence is surrounded by beautiful people or beautiful bodies, sometimes both, but he’s never quite felt this kind of… curiosity for someone. 

Credence watches as the man’s eyes skid over his mouth, cheeks, and up to his eyes where they settle. He wonders belatedly what would have happened had they met differently. 

After another moment, the man clears his throat and says, “Let’s get you a taxi, yeah?”

“Okay,” Credence agrees simply. 

They make their way over to the side doors again -- the front are locked after all -- but it doesn’t take them long to reach the street. It’s only gotten colder, it seems to Credence. The noise of the city fills in the silence between them that’s charged with a faint kind of buzzing potential for something. Credence wonders what it is, but he isn’t going to ask. 

The man gets him a taxi in record time. He opens the doors for Credence and, once Credence is inside, gives the driver fare for the ride before Credence has even told him where to. He turns back to Credence and says, “Have a nice rest of the evening.”The smile on his face is not wide, but at least it’s not artificial. 

Credence nods, feels something like regret when he replies, “Likewise,” and pulls the doors shut. 

A moment later, he gives the taxi driver his destination, and the car peels away. 

\--

Credence is startled out of his dreams by the beeping of his roommate’s alarm. It’s a soft melody really but, when being woken up by it for three months continuously, he’s grown to hate it. At least it’s efficient. 

Like every morning, his roommate hits snooze and Credence burrows back into the blankets. After performing last night, his limbs are heavy and tired. He’d managed to get back to the dorms just before curfew, but then he’d barely even stretched, the consequence of which he’s feeling now. He really doesn’t want to get out of bed yet. Drowsiness sweeps over him quickly, and in no time at all the alarm is blaring again. Credence groans and pushes the blankets from himself. He’ll just go to sleep earlier tonight.

Moving through the motions of his morning routine, Credence goes to the washroom, then to the kitchen to eat breakfast before rolling out. They have a warmup class first, but he always likes to do something while he’s still in the dorms. The knots in his calves need to be loosened up, not to mention his hip flexors. Grabbing his foam roller and tennis ball, he returns to his room where his roommate still lies asleep. Well, Credence thinks, Nico could have been worse. 

Last night when he’d gotten in, he remembers that Nico and another roommate he’s not managed to remember by name had been awake in the living room, so he’s not the only one with long nights. Theirs are unnecessary, and he really doesn’t know how Nico manages to go through a day of practice with so little sleep, or achieve accuracy that ballet, and Julliard as a school, requests of its students. Out of the twelve of them that were accepted that year, Nico was by far the worst with his sleeping habits, and the most relaxed person Credence had had the chance of meeting in that field of work.

He had thought this last night when showering and thinks it now, as he tries to ignore the pain from the foam roller digging into his hip. Or maybe Credence just doesn’t know Nico well. He barely knows any of them, really. Credence curses under his breath as he looks to the ceiling. No matter how tired, he’s doing this every time after a performance from now on.

The thought draws him back to last night, and the man in the alley. Credence can’t quite believe that he’d witnessed a beating and gotten out of it with a coat. Who even did things like that? 

Apparently, the man he’d met in the alleyway. He’d been completely blasé about the whole thing, not even affected when he broke into the theatre, as if he’d done it so many times before that it was nothing. 

Credence remembers the sharp features of the man’s face that were strangely expressive, the thickness of his eyebrows, the same deep, black color of his slicked-back hair offset only by the grey strands speaking of his age, and the startling thickness of his accent that made him particular. He’d sat so very confidently backstage, leg crossed over the other, looking halfway bored. The man was completely confusing. Worst of all, he had made Credence curious. 

To Credence, curiosity about people doesn’t come in spades, and he thinks it unfortunate that they’d had to meet and part the way they did. 

Grunting as he stands up, Nico drags his feet to the bathroom and then out of the room. He doesn’t pay any attention to Credence, and he won’t until his first coffee. It had taken them a bit to get accustomed to each other, but the man is accommodating. 

He ought to be, Credence thinks, after the time he stumbled and fell on Credence, nearly hurting both of them. 

Credence focuses on what he’s doing so as to make his exercises more efficient. There’s no reason to feel regret over this; after all it could have ended up so much worse: a hospital, broken nose, broken leg. Being thankful for what he possesses has never been his strong suit, though. 

Once he’s finished with his hips, he moves to unlocking the muscles in his legs. 

He remembers that he’d not even asked the man’s name. Everything about their encounter had been strange and unexpected, even the way Credence got the role he’d danced last night. 

One of his classmates would say something about fate, and Chastity something about the universe. None of it sounds quite so tidy as they would put it. 

“Good morning,” Nico says once he re-enters the room to grab his clothes. “You finally got a new coat, huh?”

Credence’s eyes go to the item. He replies with a simple, “Yes.”

Nico hums, letting Credence end the conversation before it even starts. He has that terrible talent and Credence mostly regrets it when talking with the young man. He’d made acquaintances with everyone; however he’s the closest with Nico. If having a short conversation every day and an occasional meal together counts as close. It probably doesn’t. 

Sighing, Credence gets up and returns his practice items to their place. He gets dressed for class and January weather before he grabs the coat and swings it over his back. Naturally, his hands go to the pockets, and that’s when Credence notices they aren’t empty. On the first try, he pulls out a slick, silver box with an appealing pattern on the lid. His other hand wraps around what could only be glasses. 

Credence pulls them out and walks to his desk to set them on top of it. 

There’s a ticket stub to the show from last night -- the man must have gone to see it -- the bloody handkerchief, and a heavy zip lighter following after it before the pockets are empty. The sunglasses are designer -- Credence can’t miss the signature -- and the lighter looks way too expensive for an item whose single purpose is lighting a cigarette. Credence pulls the metal case to himself, and when he pushes at the lid there’s a soft pop before it opens to show a half-full row of cigarettes. On the inside of the lid, in a clear curling script, Percival J. Graves lays engraved. 

Credence traces the letters with the pad of his finger before slowly pushing the case closed. He lines the things up by size before his attention is drawn by the bloodied handkerchief that’s bunched up. The stains were startlingly red last night but now are a muted, rotten cherry color. 

Nico walks by again, and Credence turns to him. “Do you know how I can wash out bloodstains?”

The man stops and looks at him for a second before his eyes go to the handkerchief, and then back to him. Then, he shrugs. “I’ll call my girlfriend, she’ll probably know.”

A couple of minutes after hearing one side of a conversation, Nico tells him to use cold water and soap. 

“Thank you,” Credence replies politely before returning to the things. Yes, the man had given him his coat, but he hadn’t given him these things. An argument could be made that he did, but Credence would feel bad keeping them, especially since they’re so misfit for his style of living, not to mention they’re expensive. 

He toys with the rim of the glasses, propping them up so they sit as if in a case. He should return them. If nothing else, he could learn a bit more about the man. Perhaps even get his memory of the man straight because he’s sure that nobody is quite so interesting as he’d thought the man was. 

The whole situation and the bad lighting must have helped with that, not to mention the swagger, the confidence, the good clothes, and the charming accent. And the fact that he’d watch him beat a man bloody before turning on his charm. There’s nothing mysterious about him; however his mind wants to go that route. People are not beautiful mysteries, they’re just people. If he explores, his curiosity can be soothed, his instincts corrected, and he can walk back to his life, affirmed in his belief. After all, there have been instances where all of these things made people much more appealing than they truly are, and Credence can easily apply this to the man, if he manages to see him again. 

Sighing, Credence pops the lid of the metal cigarette case open once more to check the name, and then he pulls his phone out to google it. If it’s the man’s name and not his, say, father’s, perhaps Credence can find him. 

It takes a bit of reading and further googling, but after fifteen minutes or so, Credence has the address of the building he’s fairly sure the man -- Mr. Graves -- works in. He’ll visit the man during lunch and return his things then. Because if he doesn’t do it immediately, he knows that nerves will get to him, and he’ll not do it later.

With that thought in mind, and curiosity churning, he goes to wash the handkerchief. He does so twice, but no matter how he tries he can’t get rid of the faint pink blotches. Well, be that as it may, once he sees that there’s no helping it anymore, Credence puts it up to dry on the heater. It’s just about time to leave for class anyways, so he goes to grab his bag.

It’s an unfairly cold morning in which Credence cuts a straight path to the main school building.

\--

social: tumblr @ [yogurt-gun](http://yogurt-gun.tumblr.com/)


	2. Episode 2: "First" Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I told you,” he says. “I figured you’d want your stuff back. It looks expensive.”
> 
> “It is.” Mr. Graves takes the cigarette case and opens it, as if he needs to inspect the validity of Credence’s statement. “So’s the coat,” the man adds, his eyes skimming over Credence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank Ali again for being a wonderful beta  
> As mentioned in the first chapter, foxtricks ( [tumblr](http://foxtricks.tumblr.com/)  
> / [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightofbows/pseuds/foxtricks/)) developed Percival's character, and if you want another mob!percy fix, I encourage you to check her fic out  
> This chapter was written by her for the fic, edited for the purpose of Credence's POV 
> 
> Enjoy!

There’s nothing worse than stage fright. Your legs won’t listen to you, uncoordinated and sloppy, hands sagging, spine bending. There’s no power in the muscles, suddenly taken away by sheer force of fear, or there’s too much of it, and it’s uncontrolled. Your stomach rolls around in your abdomen, and you’re ill until your performance ends. 

For ballet students like Credence, for professionals especially, who spend ninety percent of their time practicing and ten on stage, it’s particularly deadly. You get low grades and low reviews, and no matter how well you dance in private, a ballet company is still a business. If you can’t deliver, you’re cut. In the end, it’s how those not fit for professional level are weeded out. Ballet is very much about perfection. On stage, perfect is the only thing acceptable which is the reason why mentally strong are the only ones to remain. 

Credence has never really felt stage fright after his first freeze up at a competition. Not because he suddenly cured himself of it, no. The regret and disappointment he’d felt, and a good amount of discipline from his mother had done the job. Afterwards, he’d been more afraid of her punishments than the stage. 

Standing in the elevator of the building where Mr. Graves works feels a bit like that. Who’s he trying to fool? It feels exactly like his first competition when he was ten, tongue tied and adrenalised. Only now he’s eighteen, and while his legs work, there’s no doubt that if he doesn’t think about them, his words will stumble from his mouth, and he’ll end up embarrassing himself. 

He wouldn’t be nervous, he thinks, were he not so grossly underdressed for such a workplace. How they let him through the doors he doesn’t know. Furthermore, he watched the man beat someone up in an alley; if he pisses Mr. Graves off, Credence might end up just the same way. And he has exactly five floors to decide how’s he going to go about doing this. 

Much sooner than he’d wish, the elevator pings and he takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. There’s a reason why he’s here, and he wraps his hands around the items now so he doesn’t forget them. It doesn’t have to be complicated. All he has to do is go in, return the things, and leave. 

He exits the elevator just as a couple of employees round a corner. With high ceilings, beige and light brown wood decorations and a minimalistic but expensive feel to it, Mr. Graves’ office looks quite normal for a venture capitalist. He sees how a man such as him would fit in, with a backdrop like this. 

Credence’s legs move on their own until he reaches the secretary’s desk. 

She sees him approaching, of course, but now she looks up at him, checking him out all over again. With her short, dark bob, smart dress, and piercing gaze, Credence knows for certain that she’s unpleasantly surprised at what she sees. Then her expression fades and is replaced by professional pleasantry that surprisingly doesn’t feel quite as forced as he thought it would. 

“How may I help you?” she asks, straightening her back so she doesn’t have to bend her neck. 

“I’m here to see Mr. Graves,” Credence explains. “I don’t have an appointment; he wouldn’t be expecting me.”

“Mr. Graves is busy, so you’ll have to wait,” she explains. 

Credence expected this, so he just nods. 

The secretary directs him to a row of chairs that make up a waiting room of sorts, and when Credence sits he feels lighter than before. 

The moment they’d finished class, he’d hurried to the dorms to change and get Mr. Graves’ belongings before heading to his office. He has time, two hours of it. If he’s not done by then, he’ll have to cut this visit short, or try again the next day. 

He expects to be left waiting for at least an hour, and sure enough, twenty minutes pass quickly without the secretary even telling Mr. Graves Credence is there. He stops jumping at every phone call and movement from her, or any of the employees there. It’s why, by the time she does inform Mr. Graves of his presence, Credence has completely tuned out and missed his cue.

Somebody clears his throat however, and Credence quickly looks up to see the secretary standing, and Mr. Graves looking at him from his open doorway.

With a smirk curling the corner of his lips, the man says, “Mr. Barebone?”

Credence immediately shoots to his feet, heart suddenly hammering a mile a minute. He licks his lips and straightens himself to his full height, always so awfully prone to hunching. 

He notices he’s taller than the man, just like he notices that late hours and tiredness hadn’t altered his vision from the previous night. 

Mr. Graves’ hair is just as slick and dark as it had been the night before, now shining in contrast to his white shirt and navy suit vest. Now he looks much more amused, and it sits well on his face. With the heaviness of his gaze and the arch of his lip, the cut of his waist, and the wonderful build of his hands and back, Mr. Graves is stunning. 

“Yes,” Credence says, and even to him it sounds like a question, though he’d been the one to seek the man out. 

“You’ve come to see me, yeah?” Mr. Graves asks, eyebrows raised. “Come into my office.” The man nods to his office before disappearing inside it, leaving the door open for Credence.

Credence glances at the secretary, who’s sat down, before he lets out a breath and follows. When he stuffs his hands into the pockets the items are right there, and they remind him just what his mission is and what he should be doing. 

His shoes scuffle a bit on the carpet, a sound that has never sounded louder to him than when he enters the man’s office, closing the doors behind him. Determined, he doesn’t look around the office and take it in. Instead he strides over to Mr. Graves’ desk where the man is sitting before emptying his pockets. 

He goes from the heaviest to the lightest -- the cigarette case, the lighter, the sunglasses -- until he has everything set out before Mr. Graves, the clean handkerchief making the man’s gaze stay on it a moment too long. Credence allows his eyes to flicker to the chairs behind him, but he decides he’d rather stand. He doesn’t want to linger. 

“I figured you’d want these back,” Credence says, justifying his visit. In the silence of the office, with them so close, he doesn’t have to speak loudly. At least, not with the man’s full attention on him. 

“How did you find me?” Mr. Graves asks. There’s no humour on his face anymore. 

“Your name was on the inside cover of the cigarette case.” Credence nods towards it. “I googled it.”

“And, what? This address just happened to pop up as a search result?”

Huffing a laugh, Credence says, “Actually, yes. You aren’t exactly hard to find, Mr. Graves.”

“I’m not exactly easy to find, either,” Mr. Graves counters. “What are you really doing here?”

“I told you,” he says. “I figured you’d want your stuff back. It looks expensive.”

“It is.” Mr. Graves takes the cigarette case and opens it, as if he needs to inspect the validity of Credence’s statement. “So’s the coat,” the man adds, his eyes skimming over Credence.

While Credence is not quite able to read Mr. Graves, he’s at least certain that he shares his secretary’s taste in clothes. There’s a quirk in his forehead, a miniscule twitch of his lip. Credence is hyperfocusing on the man. He needs to step back. 

Wrapping the coat around himself possessively, Credence argues, “You said I could keep the coat.”

“Most people would just take this to the nearest pawn shop for a quick buck. This is a lot of effort for a stranger.”

“It’s a lot to give to a stranger,” Credence retorts. “Most people wouldn’t literally give the coat off their back to a needy stranger shivering half-naked in an alley. Not to mention breaking into a locked theatre after hours to help that needy stranger get his forgotten belongings back.”

“That’s quite enough, Mr. Barebone,” Mr. Graves warns. 

Credence watches as the man’s hand extends towards the handkerchief, but instead of putting it away as he’d expected, his fingers simply lie on it to draw Credence’s attention to the bloodstains. Credence heeds the warning but, buzzing with energy as he is, shutting his mouth is impossible.

“Credence,” he impulsively corrects. The moment his name leaves his mouth, he regrets it; he knew this would happen. His cheeks tingle from embarrassment, and he wishes he could take it back, but, knowing he can’t, there’s nothing left for him but to continue. “My name is Credence.”

“Well, Credence,” Mr. Graves almost purrs, deepening Credence’s blush. “I do appreciate you bringing me my belongings. It’s very kind of you.”

Credence knows he’s being teased, however faintly, but in a situation so out of his regular regime, he can feel nothing but discomfort. 

“Uh, sure,” Credence replies, and resolves to get out of Mr. Graves’ office in his regular ‘exit stage left’ way. He pulls back the right sleeve of the coat, exposing his bare wrist. “Oh, look at the time! I should really get going.” He starts walking backwards towards the door, not quite able to stop looking at Mr. Graves. “I’m glad you’re happy to have your stuff back and--”

“Credence,” Mr. Graves states, just as Credence’s hand reaches for the door knob. The man pushes away from his desk and stands before collecting his suit jacket from the back of his chair and shrugging into it. “Why don’t you join me for lunch?”

Caught off guard, Credence frowns. “Why?”

Percival looks at his wrist that does possess a watch, and says, “Because it’s two in the afternoon, and I’m starving. Besides, consider it--” Mr. Graves pauses, as if searching for words. 

Credence tracks his movements to the coat rack where he slips into his coat of a similar cut to the one Credence wears. 

“--my thanks for your selflessness.” Mr Graves smiles then, and it’s as crooked as it is charming. 

Faintly, Credence nods, feeling less like a cornered animal and more like he’s been hit with a wet rag. 

“Sure,” he says dumbly, feeling his heart return to the pace of the waiting room. “Alright.”

“Good,” Mr. Graves says and appears to be satisfied with the outcome.

With a quick but elegant step, he nears Credence and puts a hand on the small of his back, guiding him out of the office. 

Credence hadn’t wanted to linger. There’s no reason to agree to lunch. He’s sideswept, blown in a completely foreign direction, and after a bit of thinking, he realises that at the very least, he can get a free meal out of it. First a coat, then a meal; Credence wonders if by the end of the day Mr. Graves is going to offer to pay his tuition for him too. The way the man’s hand oh-so-casually lingers on his back is telling about both of their feelings. In the prospect, Credence knows himself very well. If he’d minded, he wouldn’t have allowed the man to come anywhere near his personal space. 

“Do you like Thai? There’s an amazing Thai restaurant just a few blocks down.” Mr. Graves turns to him after waving to his secretary with a quick, “Out to lunch!” 

Absently, Credence notes the warmth of his hand, the smell of his cologne, and the startling darkness of his eyelashes now that he’s close enough to notice. He should pull away, he should say goodbye and leave. At the very least, he should slip away from Mr. Graves’ hold. Instead, as if charmed by a spell, he allows his hand to linger all the way to the elevator, suddenly falling mute.

Their closeness is startling when they’re in the metal cage that forces proximity, and Credence decides it’s the best time to move away, casually leaning against the corner of the car and shoving his hands into the coat pockets. It’s strange not having the items filling them anymore, but he supposes it’s for the best. He’s finished his mission and, he supposes after lunch he’ll be finished with Mr. Graves as well.

He realises he’s staring down at his shoes only when the man starts speaking again. 

“You never actually answered me, Credence. Do you like Thai food?”

Credence shrugs. “Never had it before.” He glances up at the man, whose expression falls in surprise. 

For a man in his line of business, whatever five thousand dollar suits and beating people bloody in alleyways entails, Mr. Graves’ face is very expressive. “Oh. You’re in for a treat, then.”

Credence very much doubts it. Food is sustenance, and more often than not, he doesn’t care how it tastes as long as he gets to it. Still, he’s curious and slightly amused, and he doesn’t want the conversation to end, so he asks, “Why’s that?” 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees that they’re nearing the lobby, so he straightens, shoulder to shoulder with Mr. Graves. 

“Thai food is delicious,” Mr. Graves says with feeling, scoffing slightly. “You’ve done yourself a disservice by not trying it until now. Don’t worry. We’ll remedy that soon enough.” 

There’s a light ding signaling that they’ve reached their destination, and when the metal doors open, Credence goes first, Mr. Graves following him closely. There’s no hand on his back, which is a slight disappointment that Credence hates admitting.

After crossing the lobby, they hit the bustling New York streets. It’s still lunch time and there are too many pedestrians to walk comfortably side by side. Even though he’d been ahead, Credence falls a step behind Mr. Graves, who shoulders through the people expertly. Or rather, it seems that they split around him, like water around a rock. 

With the same strange sensation from the elevator, Credence continues talking in another attempt to make conversation. “I’ve heard it's spicy.”

There’s something light in Mr. Graves’ voice when he replies, as if he can read Credence’s intentions and is amused by them. “It can be. The restaurant we're going to has plenty of items to accommodate American palates. It's a very popular place, so I wouldn't worry about it.”

“You say American as if you aren’t,” Credence accuses.

“Has my accent faded so much? I’m Irish,” Mr. Graves explains. “But that doesn’t mean I’ve maintained or catered to bland American fare. I have too many clients across the globe to not enjoy spices and flavors.”

“Your accent is fine,” Credence mutters. He’d not expected that kind of reply. He knows how some of his classmates would have reacted, but Mr. Graves doesn’t rise to the bait. It sets a precedent, and Credence is curious whether it is true or false. 

They walk several blocks, pausing at street corners until the traffic lights change. Credence can’t keep himself from glancing at Mr. Graves every so often, and when he’s caught he’s quite unapologetic about it. It forces the man to pull him back from oncoming traffic twice, but rather than being uncomfortable about the attention he’s getting, Mr. Graves simply clicks his tongue in reprimand.

Credence hums, brows rising when they reach the restaurant. He recognizes the name immediately. “Oh,” he says, “I know this place. My classmates have invited me a few times.”

Nico has asked him a handful of times if he wanted to go with them to get food there, but Credence had brushed him off every time.

“Classmates?” Mr. Graves asks, as if he’d not even considered the option, opening and holding the door for Credence. The bell above rings to announce their arrival. 

Credence nods and smirks, eyes unmoving from the man. “Yes, classmates. I'm a student.”

Then, because he can, and because he’s always had a flair for dramatics, he breezes past the man and into the restaurant, waiting expectantly at the host stand.

He waits for Mr. Graves to order a table for two, and the hostess, smiling brightly, says, “Of course, Mr. Graves. Right this way.” 

Credence has not gone out much, but when he has, he’s never been seated immediately. As it is, he follows the carved out path behind Mr. Graves and the hostess until they’re sat at a table and handed menus. 

The restaurant itself is small, intimate. Browns and golds dominate the decor with silver and gold detailing, splashes of interesting patterns serving to divide the eye’s attention between sections. With its straight edges, deco hanging lights above each table, and familiar instrumental playing softly over the ceiling speakers, there’s an air of fun sophistication with great appeal. He can see why Nico and the others like this place. 

“Mr. Graves,” Credence mimics, teasing. “I take it you come here often, if they know your name. Is this a special table for you, too?”

“Most restaurant staff will remember pleasant or generous patrons,” Mr. Graves offers amiably. “And yes, this is one of my preferred seats.”

“Do you bring everyone who returns your lost goods here?” Credence asks, flipping open the menu. With Mr. Graves’ eyes so intensely pinned on him, however, he has to look up and meet them.

“No,” the man says. “Only the ones brash enough to keep my coats.”

Annoyance sparks within him in the space of a moment. This is the second time the man has alluded to the coat, and he thinks he should remind him of his words yesterday. “You said--”

“I remember what I said, Credence,” Mr. Graves smoothly interrupts. “Relax. I'm not going to rip it off you like some savage. You wear leotards for a living. That coat might be a matter of life or death for you.”

“It's not a living,” Credence retorts, tongue quicker than mind. “It's a way of life.”

“Oh?” Mr. Graves raises his brows in interest. There’s a smirk on his mouth; he knows he’s gotten a rise out of Credence. “Is that so? Then tell me about this way of life.”

Credence can feel himself flush all the way to his ears. There’s something about Mr. Graves that has him on such rocky footing that his regular patterns of behaviour either aren’t replied to in an expected way, or he’s forced to make brand new ones. He’s not blushed this much in years. 

The server brings them glasses of water they never specifically ordered, and Credence takes the time to abort the crisis in his mind. 

“I'm just a student right now,” he says softly.

“So you've said,” Mr. Graves remarks. After sipping his drink, he asks, “Where are you studying?”

“Julliard.”

“Impressive.”

Credence shrugs. “It’s just a school.”

“A very prestigious school,” Mr. Graves counters. “You must be quite good.”

“I am. But it’s a different experience from a company,” Credence explains. Comfortable with the topic, he continues. “There are certain advantages to being a student, like working with professional choreographers on new pieces and having a lot of performance experience. But we’re not working.”

It’s something his mother had said to him after he’d gotten accepted, though he’d rephrased it a bit. After Chastity got into the American School of Ballet, age fifteen, it had only been a matter of two years before she’d signed a contract for NYCB. Now, she’s a soloist with them and Credence doubts that it will take her more than another three years to become a principal. 

His mother had expected a similar, if not better trajectory, from him. With the amount of stage experience he had, competing in pretty much every ballet competition across America, and the sheer amount of training and talent, there was no reason for him not to be accepted as well. But then he’d reached age fifteen, then sixteen, and seventeen and still no company would accept him. In the end, he was forced to make a decision, and here he was now, dancing for Juilliard. 

They’d said his personality had been a problem. Ultimately, even Mary Lou Barebone, retired ABT principal, had deemed that the only possible reason for his failure. After all, it couldn’t have been her teaching skills; she’d proven herself in Chastity’s success. 

That doesn’t mean she’s fine with what he’s doing, but at least, as she would say, he’s dancing. He’s just glad that he’s away from home. 

“What’s good here?” he asks absentmindedly, looking back at the menu. Some dishes have already caught his eye, though he will have to request alterations.

“Anything, really,” Mr. Graves answers. He leans across the table, perched on the edge of his chair with an arm braced against the table. He points to a few of his favorites, glancing up every now and again to gauge Credence’s reaction. “This one is pretty savory, but it’s also got a bit of a kick. If you’re looking for something mild, I’d suggest the pad thai. They can tailor the spices to your taste.”

Credence hums thoughtfully. “How spicy is the mild?”

Huffing a laugh, Mr. Graves smirks, leaning back into his seat. “Not? I don’t know. I don’t notice much of a bite, but you might be more sensitive to it.” When Credence still seems apprehensive, he continues, “It’s a curry sort of spice, though. A few sips of water, and you’ll be fine. It doesn’t linger the way, say, pepper spice does.”

“Alright,” Credence says softly. “I guess I’ll get the pad thai, then.”

“You won’t regret it,” Mr. Graves reassures him.

“I hope not,” Credence agrees with a small smile.

He pushes back his hair in a nervous attempt to tame it, though really there’s nothing to tame. Rather than being worried about getting hurt, or having performance anxiety while talking with the secretary, now his heart beats in a unique tempo caused by an uncharacteristically nice conversation with the man across from him, and the fact that he’s truly enjoying it. 

Busying himself with unwrapping his silverware from its black napkin wrapping, he notices that the chopsticks come packaged in paper, and he hums in mild interest when he tears it.

Raising an eyebrow, Mr. Graves asks, “What?”

“Nothing,” Credence says, eyes quickly jumping to his. “I’ve just never used chopsticks I didn’t have to break.”

“No splinters, either,” Percival comments. There’s something funny in his voice, and though he’s hiding his mouth behind his hand, Credence can see the way the corners of his eyes are creased, letting him know that Mr. Graves is smiling.

Credence smirks.

“So tell me more about ballet. I assume you’re making a career out of it?”

Credence hums affirmatively and takes a sip of his water. He prefers to think before he speaks, and though he’d not shown a great deal of restraint in front of the man, he knows he has to now if he wants to give an eloquent answer. Though, in that moment, while he’s poised to answer, their server arrives to take their orders. 

Mr. Graves lets him order first so he takes the recommendation, pad thai, and asks for the alterations he needs. 

Surprisingly, the server smiles warmly and writes down the order.

After he’s done, Mr. Graves simply says, “I’ll have my usual.”

“Of course, Mr. Graves,” the server answers. Then he collects their menus and disappears with a nod of his head.

“What’s your usual?” Credence asks.

“Off menu,” Mr. Graves answers unhelpfully. “I’ll let you try it if if you want. Now, your career?”

Collecting his thoughts in a firm bouquet that he’d let disperse when the server arrived, he says, “Usually, you go to a ballet school, audition, and become an apprentice before signing a contract. There are already professionals my age working and performing.”

“I suppose age works against you in that regard.”

 

“More like what your body can and can’t take regarding the demands of the art,” Credence explains easily. “The younger you are, the easier it is for you to recover from the strain and avoid injury. Not so much the older you get. It’s why male ballet dancers retire before their female colleagues. On any given day, you have to be in shape to partner, which means hefting a hundred pounds on stage for at least an hour. For professionals, that happens every night.”

Mr. Graves hums and takes him in, as if he’s trying to see where such strength would come from in Credence. He’s much more lithe than the man, their physiques shaped via different influences. For ballet dancers, the bulk is unnecessary. 

“You danced with a partner last night,” Mr. Graves notes. 

That confirms Credence’s suspicion, and the evidence in shape of a ticket stub, that the man had watched his performance. “It’s a much more contemporary piece,” Credence explains before he smirks. “Which is why I was wearing a leotard.”

Mr. Graves’s lip curls in a pleasant expression, and he replies, “I wasn’t judging you, Credence. The view was nice.”

Credence covers a laugh with his hand, and when he’s done he leaves the hand there, leaning his chin against it. Mr. Graves looks at him as if he’s quite pleased he’d gotten Credence to laugh, which makes it all the more pleasant. Credence can’t stop smiling. He wonders if there’s something in the water. 

The man’s eyes suddenly snap to something behind Credence, which is why he isn’t surprised when they’re served their dishes a moment later. Their server bids them a good meal before disappearing as quickly as he’d made his appearance. 

Credence eyes his dish and likes what he sees, though when he sees what Mr. Graves has ordered he’s not quite so sure. It’s bubbling, for one, and it’s the shade of red that Credence heavily associates with chili spice. 

Mr. Graves must notice his expression because he chuckles and says, “It’s just chicken curry.”

“All more worrying it’s off menu,” Credence jokes, taking his chopsticks and poking at his food before taking a bite. 

It’s good. It’s really good. He groans and takes another bite. He definitely sees why Nico would come here. The man likes to eat, and he likes to eat good food. They’ve all been treated to his protein pancakes and oatmeal bowls. 

If Credence has a chance, next time he’s going with him here. 

“There are ingredients in it that aren’t really offered in the regular chicken curry,” Mr. Graves explains before starting to work on his own food. “You like it that much, huh?” 

Credence waits until his mouth is empty before he says, “Sustenance doesn’t have to taste good. This does. Taste good, I mean.”

Mr. Graves’ eyebrows rise in surprise. “Would you like to try mine, then? I promise it’s good.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Credence replies. 

The conversation wanes as they focus on their food, though it doesn’t last too long. For one, the moment Credence doesn’t feel his stomach twisting in on itself from hunger, he tunes back into the man who’s methodically eating his food. 

For a moment, he lets himself feel the absolute absurdity of the situation; though it’s never helped before to get perspective, and it surely doesn’t now, because instead of making a hasty retreat he’s wondering how to start up a conversation again. It’s the third time in a row, but Mr. Graves, intuitive as he is, does it for him.

“So… you were bragging about lifting a hundred pounds for an hour?” he prompts. It’s not a slight to him, but a continuation of the teasing. 

Having seen Mr. Graves last night, he would have never felt like the man had this kind of humour. Credence purses his mouth before replying, “If you’re bored...”

“Credence, if I were bored with you, you would know even before we ordered food. Now, if you don’t want to talk about your career, that’s fine.” 

“Not at all. As I said, male dancers retire early and start young. By the time I finish Juilliard, I will be twenty-three, cutting my time even shorter. Optimistically, I will have twenty-five years. Realistically, I will have a good fifteen years before everything starts hurting.” 

They continue talking, Mr. Graves interjecting, and Credence talking in general about ballet. It’s such a broad topic that he could talk about it for days, which is probably the reason the man lets him go on. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to try the curry?” Mr. Graves offers again, cutting him off strategically between pauses. 

Usually, Credence wouldn’t, he’s not exactly an adventurous eater, but his food tastes so good that he’s interested to see what the curry is like. So instead of refusing like before, he nods and offers his plate. 

Mr. Graves gives him a couple chunks of chicken and some sauce, which Credence eats immediately. 

The chicken melts in his mouth, and the sauce is rich and sweet. It’s so good that Credence contemplates ordering the dish entirely before the heat kicks in. Suddenly, he feels his whole body shutting off as the back of his throat, his mouth, his tongue, even his teeth, start burning. There’s perspiration on his forehead and his temples. If he reaches for the water, it’s too see-through, and it seems like Mr. Graves hasn’t noticed anything yet. 

“Good, right?” Mr. Graves asks. 

Credence nods before he stuffs pad thai into his mouth to get the heat off. There’s more curry chicken left on his plate, and he looks at it and then back at Percival before he takes a breath. His body won’t thank him; even he doesn’t thank himself. He’s just glad they have regular bathroom breaks between classes. Then, sentencing himself to a life of pain for the next hour or so, Credence eats the rest of the chicken. 

He does it methodically, mixing it in with pad thai and taking sips of water, but nothing stops the heat burning his mouth. Mr. Graves is talking lightly, and he seems highly amused, though at what Credence isn’t sure. He can’t quite focus when he’s battling with himself to run to the toilet and dunk his head into the bathroom sink. Or, preferably, to run to the nearest convenience store and buy milk. He’s sweating so much that it should be obvious to the man, but if he notices, Mr. Graves doesn’t mention it. 

At least, not until their plates are empty, and Credence has drunk his second glass of water. 

“How’d you like the spice?” Mr. Graves asks, an entirely too innocent expression on his face. A grin spills across his lips, making Credence groan.

“You’re evil,” he accuses.

“You were fighting it so valiantly, I couldn’t have said anything,” Mr. Graves says. Damn him, even such a self-satisfied smirk suits him well. He waves the server over and asks for the check. 

“I think I have a headache,” Credence complains. “My teeth hurt.”

At that, Mr. Graves only laughs. In record time, the bill is paid. Mr. Graves insists it’s his treat, and when Credence looks at his phone for the time, he sees he has just enough to go back to the dorms and change before class starts again. 

Mr. Graves helps him slip into his coat, before he guides him out of the restaurant and into the street, with a hand on the small of his back like he’d done at the office. 

“Let me grab you a cab,” he says.

“I’d rather walk,” Credence replies immediately. Then, a bit more considerately, “Thank you for… the meal. It was pleasant. Mostly.”

The corner of Mr. Graves’ mouth quirks, and he says, “My pleasure, Credence.”

It’s much softer than anything he’s said before, and even through his flirtation, he’d never sounded this genuine. Credence isn’t sure what to do with it, awkward even with himself. He’s quite sure they’ll never see each other again, and he has the urge to stretch the minutes.

In the end, Mr. Graves decides for both of them, so he nods and says, “Have a good rest of your day, Mr. Barebone.”

“Goodbye,” Credence nods, and watches as the man disappears in a sea of people. 

Whatever spell he’s under breaks with distance, and Credence remembers that he has to hurry, his time for dalliances quite spent.

\--

socials: [yogurt-gun](http://yogurt-gun.tumblr.com/)


End file.
